Unforgiven: The Story of a Bad Romance
by dorangeange
Summary: After a shocking betrayal, Kenny abruptly breaks off his twisted relationship with Christophe, only to find he's become terminally ill. Facing death alone, Kenny vows never to forgive his friend. However, Christophe is unwilling to give up the fight.
1. Prolouge

Preamble

In the fall of 2009, high profile acting coach and Broadway veteran director, Herbert Garrison, began to make theatre history out of his well respected studio in Los Angeles, California. Garrison's conservatory there had been a magnet for celebrities and Hollywood up and comers for nearly 20 years when he decided to expand his already venerable program. With a lineup of his most promising young talent, Garrison created _South Park_, a controversial soap opera style improvisational program that aired live once a week from Garrison's LA theatre. The concept was simple. Each week, the characters (highly fictionalized versions of the actors, themselves,) would take the stage and act through scenes in front of an audience. There was no script- only very rough outlines of the plot, leaving the actors free to truly rely on the instincts of their characters. The original 11 cast members with their names, _current_ ages, and _South Park_ pseudonym surnames are:

Eric Reliance Bateman- Eric Cartman (16)

Kyle Weinstein- Kyle Broflovski (15)

Stanley Doe Smith- Stan Marsh (17)

Kenneth Frain-Burke- Kenny McCormick (16)

David Samuel- Token Black (17)

Wendy Hasslebeck- Wendy Testaburger (15)

Leopold Colin Stough- Leopold "Butters" Stotch (17)

Rebecca Walters- Rebecca "Red" Rader (16)

Craig Wilson Jones- Craig Tucker (17)

Bridon Efron- Bridon Guermo (15)

Brenda Ann Bergman- Brenda "Bebe" Stevens (15)

Clyde Foster – Clyde Donovan (15)

It should be noted that although _South Park_ was extremely influential in skyrocketing many of these young stars to prominence in Hollywood, all of the actors had pre-existing careers prior to the show. The most famous of these being of course, Kenneth Frain-Burke, the son of former supermodel, Carol Frain-Burke, whose music career as a popular artist had launched at a mere 11 years of age. Prior to _South Park_, Frain-Burke was a Grammy winner, and a respected indie film actor. Kyle Weinstein and Stanley Doe Smith had worked as child actors together, providing voices for animated characters. Brenda Ann Bergman and David Samuel had already accrued respectable careers as print models, and Leopold Colin Stough was the son of famous film director, Stephen Stough. Bridon Efron, Rebecca Waters, and Wendy Hasslebeck were recruited from Broadway. Eric Reliance Bateman had tenure on day time soap operas.

As _South Park_ grew in popularity and prominence, Garrison added three new additions to his cast for the second season. These included Kyle Weinstein's younger brother, Ike Weinstein [_Ike Broflovski (14)_], Hollywood newbie, Doug Leigh-Danvers, [_Doug "Dougie" Olsen (14)_], and French rock star, Christophe Jean-Benoit [_Christophe Henri (17)_]. Jean-Benoit, although unknown in the US, was a young rock star from Stade Roland Garros. His name may be familiar for the French tabloid reports of his family's rumored ties with a crime syndicate. Garrison asked Jean-Benoit to sign on to the show after watching him perform at the French Open. However, what Garrison did not anticipate was how Jean Benoit would affect his cast, and in particular, his star actor, Kenneth Frain-Burke. Had he known, it is unclear if he would have offered a role to the young Frenchman.

This is their story.


	2. Chapter 1: Not Complicated

Eric walks up to me with this cigarette hanging out of his horrible fat mouth like some kind of mob boss. The truth is, the only kind of authority Eric has ever really had was back when he was in boy scouts, and even then he still was nothing more than an overgrown lump of ego with a voice that seemed to match his ass in both magnitude and appeal. I'm not exactly sure when he stopped sucking on beef jerky and switched to cancer sticks, but I'm totally disgusted.

He offers me one and I light up. I don't smoke. Nobody does except for that Euro-trash fag, Christophe, and with him it's supposedly "cultural." Sometimes I wonder if the way his ember eyes go over me whenever I'm running around shirtless is also cultural.

"Kenny," Eric nods and we both lean back against the studio wall like we're real classy shit. "The fuck, you _dumm hund_? What's this I hear about you and _People_?"

I eye him with both endless annoyance and infinite patience. I am a fucking saint. "I don't know, Fatass. What about me and people?"

Eric rolls his eyes and I wonder if his eyelids are even fat. Can eyelids be fat? His are. "Well, aren't the magazine dudes coming the studio today to interview you?"

"Maybe." Do I care?

Eric spits out the side of his mouth. "You gonna tell them?"

I fake a sigh. I feign interest. Okay. I lied. I don't feign interest. "Tell them what?"

Eric gives me a disgustingly meaningful look. "You _know_!"

I do know. "I don't."

"They're going want to know about why you didn't show for last week's episode." He smirks. Eric doesn't even try to hide his glee at my suffering. "All they're going to want to know about is _Christophe_."

I absently wonder when hearing his name isn't going to make me want to punch the nearest guy in total masculine disgust.

I shrug. "There's nothing to say about him."

"Oh," Eric smirks. "So the fact that last week he hooked up live, on stage with Ike doesn't upset you just a little bit?"

I shrug.

"You walked out of the studio."

"I needed some air."

"Then you got in your car and sped away. And then you didn't show for rehearsal or for last week's show."

"I called Garrison in sick. Ask him." I try really fucking hard to keep the malice out of my tone. But something inside of me has been dying slowly since that night. And still is.

Eric knows better and I hate that he knows better. "Christophe told Stan you're fighting."

"How would he know?" It's out before I can stop myself.

"Well, I think he assumes. He says you won't return his calls or texts." Eric swings a heavy arm over my shoulder and I just keep from flinching. "He's upset."

I'm sure he is. I sigh, "Unless Christophe told the media that we're fighting- I could give a rat's ass."

"Oh," Eric grins, "They know. It's all over the blogs."

Of course it is. "That doesn't mean shit."

I can feel Fatass studying me, looking at my face for any break. "Don't you think you're taking this whole thing a little personally, Ken? I mean, I know that you and Christophe are like best friends or whatever, and I know that your bromance is some kind of weird obsession for the media, but he's was _acting_. And it's not like your characters were like, official or anything. You were just fuck buddies."

There are so many things wrong with Christophe hooking up with Ike, in or out of character, but I don't tell Eric any of them.

"Ike is 14." Is all I mutter.

Eric shrugs, "It's not like you totally haven't pulled worse shit, dude."

I can't help glaring at the wall. "The fuck I have! Not recently at least…"

The ugly truth is sex with Christophe is so intense, so intoxicating, so goddamn amazing, I can't imagine wanting it with another person. There's something about that cocky whore that makes me crave him- and only him. As nauseating as it is, I haven't even been able to get it up thinking about anybody else since we started hooking up on (and off) stage about two months ago. By the way he attacks me hungrily in my dressing room after shows, or commands my attention during rehearsals, I can tell he needs this. Needs the outlet. There is this raw, unprecedented, anger in him. A darkness that most people interpret as snobbery or just pure pride. But when he's kissing me, I can tell it's a fire, a slow burn inside of him that he somehow uses me to control.

He doesn't love me. He tells me that. Fuck, he tells anybody who will listen. But it's not like I'm surprised. How do you love a fire extinguisher? It's a tool. Nothing more.

Eric gives me one of those looks that are meant to be sympathetic, but really looks more like a condescending smirk. "You're fucked up, man." He shakes his head. "You really need a fucking real relationship."

I don't say anything, choosing to take a drag on the stupid cigarette instead. I look down. The British say these fags will kill you. Not if a certain other one gets me first…

Eric is still peering at me the way a sadistic child peers at a burning ant through a magnifying glass. "He'll never love you."

Maybe not, but what Eric and the rest of the whole goddamned world don't know is Christophe does a damned good impression of it sometimes. Or maybe that's just what I tell myself to convince myself it wasn't only me who blurred the lines. Broke the rules.

"Of course not." I nod dryly. "He's a fucking pedophile."

Eric smirks, "So you are upset! I warned you, Ken-"

"You know fuck about this!" I growl, turning sharply and focusing my full glare on Eric's fat face. I pull myself up to my full height and grind out the cigarette with a slow deliberateness I know Eric will be smart enough to take as a warning. There is nothing about me that would stop me from pounding his candyass if provoked.

Eric half-shrugs, but slinks down in temporary submission, muttering something in German. I turn to leave.

"Are you going to find out your test results today?" Eric's voice calls out behind me, and I cringe.

"I'm not talking about that, Fat-tits."

"You might be fucking sick, Ken. Really fucking sick." Eric's tone makes it obvious he thinks he knows every fucking thing there is to know about life and death. "You should talk about it."

"You wouldn't even know about it if you hadn't stolen my Blackberry, you little shit." I roll my eyes. "I'm not worried about it." I add for good measure.

"Of course not." Eric nods.

Backstage is dusty and buzzing, just two hours before curtain. I keep to the shadows, deliberately making my way through a maze of curtains and sets, where I know I'm unlikely to be seen. Only Garrison and Eric have seen me tonight. The rest of the cast knows I'm here- I'm sure of it, but the little busybodies have been instructed to leave me to rest before curtain. Everyone from the house manager, to the cast, to fucking TMZ has been told that I'm sick. What they don't know is how much truth that lie may actually carry.

The principle's dressing room- my dressing room, is the largest on this side of the stage, and therefore secluded from the others. I dread going in there. I'm positive the stench of him still lingers. Fuck. Maybe when I open the door I'll see our ghosts fucking on sofa. To think that was only a week ago. But when I get to my dressing room what greets me isn't a ghost, but a man. Hot blooded, solid, flesh and heart and sweat and misery.

Christophe has perched himself on my counter and his clear eyes are staring slightly at the floor instead of meeting my face, but there is something in the indignant way he holds his broad shoulders that lets me know instantly, he's not sorry. Not that I expected the fucking dick to be.

"Kenny." His voice cuts to me, it's both hesitant and rooted.

I turn, casually flinging my shit on the sofa. "What the fuck are you doing in here?"

Christophe sees through my bullshit immediately. "You must be… pissed."

I turn back to him carefully, he's watching me now. It hurts to watch him. I keep my features resolutely impassive. He doesn't deserve my reactions. "I'm… surprised."

"It was bound to happen." Christophe takes out a cigarette and flips it around in his slender hands.

"You don't have to explain it to me." My voice is cold, impartial. I mean, sure, I could do the mature thing and actually confront him about this. You know, swear at him, and then get my ass royally kicked. He would be all, "_What the hell, Kenny? I do not have to explain myself to a prostitute such as yourself."_- he's just full of sweet nothings. Have a Hallmark moment from hell. But quite frankly- I don't want to risk him touching me. And I definitely cannot look at him right now. It's too… off putting- even for me.

"I just wanted you to know…" Christophe is still looking at me. God, it burns. "It was in character."

"And making out with the little boy in the green room before curtain," I smirk in complete annoyance. I can't keep a trace amount of bitterness from my voice. "That was also 'in character'?"

Christophe's head jerks up, taken aback, and for a single solitary moment I imagine I see guilt in his face, maybe even remorse. But I know this can't be anything but my imagination. I turn away.

"I'm sorry I hurt you." His voice is soft, tenuous. It makes me want to throw up or punch the wall until it's orange with blood.

"Are we done here?" is all I say.

"Kenny." Christophe hops off the counter and I can feel him approaching. "Why must you make things so complicated? I did not think you had a problem with what we were doing, _mon cher_."

"It's not complicated," I assure him tritely. I mean, I'm starting to hate him so much, it's getting complicated, but it isn't right now. I turn and walk out. It's that simple. He doesn't follow me. Who would follow a fucking extinguisher?


	3. Chapter 2: You Found Me

_No one in your life is with you constantly_

_No one is completely on your side_

_And though I move my world to be with him_

_Still the gap between us is too wide_

_Looking back I could have played it differently_

_Won a few more moments, who can tell? _

"Kenny, get your faggy little ass in here!" Garrison is probably one floor above me and yet it feels as though his voice is right in my ear. I don't know how he does that, but I don't move from my couch either.

Some unfortunate person has been in here to clean since last week. The disgusting seven layer bar of my boxers, Christophe's boxers, Lela's dog food, Red Bull cans, Evian bottles, Starbucks cups, and all the broken Jack Daniel's bottles I smashed last week is suspiciously missing. Instead the place is covered with unopened fan mail and unwrapped bouquets, all with cards from my agents and marketing people: _Get Better, Love, The Byron Group_.

"Kenneth Frain-Burke get your hot little dumbass up to the studio immediately! I've got a camera crew from _People_ waiting to hear about how you fainted back stage last week and have been on bed rest!" Garrison is suddenly in my face.

I am not amused. "Fainted?"

"Fine! We can tell them you threw up! Just get your ass up there! I'm running out of lies!"

I stand up incredulously, "What the hell did you do with all of my shit?"

Garrison crosses his skinny black turtleneck encased arms and pops his hip out, clearly irritated. "It's called a vacuum, dumbass!"

I cock my head, deftly punting one of the enormous crystal vases to the floor, effectively shattering it loudly, "Maybe I like things like this!"

Garrison rolls his eyes, "Fine, Kenneth, do whatever the hell you want. But when you're done having your little tantrum, will you please remember that we work in a BUSINESS and in this business nobody- not even you, Mr. Complainy-pants, can escape _People_!"

"I told you I'm not going to talk about this."

"You don't have a choice! The whole damn world knows you didn't come out for curtain call last week! What am I supposed to tell them- you died?" Garrison sighs, and picks up a stack of perfumed envelops. "I know you're… emotional. But this too will pass. You're over-reacting. Like a woman. That's why the word 'ovary' is in 'over-reacting', Ken. Just read some fan mail. There's like a 50% chance it will make you feel better…" He studies the envelopes with suspicion, "And 50% chance it's like… a death threat or a naked picture of an obese fan, or something, but I like them odds!"

I slump back down on the couch, crossing my arms. "We've talked about artistic freedom, Garrison. I told you- if I can't have it, I'm leaving."

"Artistic freedom does not include walking out and being a dick to everyone, Kenny!" Garrison imploded.

"That is exactly what it means!" I stand up, pointing my finger at Garrison, "You wanted a heavy hitter, Garrison, and I gave you that! Exactly that! _Nobody_ goes harder on that stage than I do- fucking _nobody_! You think it's easy doing what I do? This character you have me playing is making me lose my fucking sanity! I'm twice the artist of any of those motherfuckers out there and I will _not_ compromise- not for you, not for anyone! You think you can get someone better? Be my fucking guest."

Garrison sighs, annoyed, "If your dick was the size of your ego you'd be a porn star, not an actor."

"So? What goes on between Henri _or_ Jean-Benoit and I is our business- not part of _the_ business. And I don't have to answer to _you_ or _People_ for it!"

Garrison taps his foot nervously. "What do I have to do to get you to come back upstairs and shoot the interview?"

I look up at him, "Release me from my contract for the season. I want to be paid episode by episode. I want creative control over McCormick and I can walk any time."

Garrison stares at me for a moment, and I can see him carefully picking his battles. "Alright." He finally agrees. "Now can we pretty fucking please go upstairs?"

"Fine." I stand up and reach for a fresh shirt.

I'm ushered into Studio 3 by an army of makeup artists and stage managers, some clean designer black shirt hanging off of my lean torso, like the bad guy in a cowboy film. I button it as quickly as I can, but my fingers are suddenly useless as I see the welcome awaiting me in the studio. The back half of the room is set up with typical camera lights and two interview chairs; the reporter is getting her face touched up by her own army of cosmetologists. All normal fare. But in the front, sitting on the floor like a group of elementary school kids on some kind of twisted field trip is the _whole damn cast_. I can see the vague outline of Christophe's form leaning back on the studio wall, his sharp jaw line slightly tilted.

"I told them they could watch," Garrison shrugs, "It's educational for them, Kenny."

"I'm going to kill you."

"No, you're not," Garrison smirks, nodding towards the stupid fucking camera, "You're going to go in there and smile and answer the nice lady's questions. Be a good example for your friends."

"Those fucking amateurs are _not_ my friends." I mutter. "It was never my job to be their friends." I aggressively shrug off the two make-up people and bust through the studio doors, my broad shoulders thrown back, my signature swagger in full gear. I lock on to the young, blonde reporter and flash her a half-eyed smirk, automatically taking up as much space as I can in the room. Normally in the rare times I deal with the press I stay mellow and contained- a humble servant of the arts. Today, I'd rather put on a show. Garrison wants his fucking cast to get an education, right?

"We haven't met." I strut up to the reporter and get in real close. She blushes and stammers something out, all professionalism out the window. I lose my stupid black shirt with one aggressive yank and toss it to Butters on the side with a grin, revealing a long-sleeved grey undershirt I know hugs my biceps in a somewhat distracting way.

As the interview gets underway, the reporter seems to remember that she has an actual job to do and attempts to get down to business.

"Are you recovered from your illness last week?" she asks after the obligatory gag-inducing pleasantries.

I want to stand up and scream at Ike and Christophe and the whole fucking world, _I will never recover from last week!_- but I shrug coolly, as if somewhat bemused that even celebrities get sick.

"Obviously, what has been on everybody's mind this season is the just incredible chemistry that seems to have blossomed between your character and Christophe Jean-Benoit's character, Christophe Henri." She can't help but offer a curious glance over at the wall where Christophe is pretending to not watch the interactions like the way a wolf pretends to be uninterested with a chicken. "And it is amazing to watch. I know the question everyone is asking, is how much of that passion translates to off stage?"

I sit back and look down, introspectively, smiling a little to myself, "Not much," I nod, knowingly lying. "All of the support we've been getting from the fans is really sweet, and everything, but I think media makes our association out to be much more than it is."

The reporter laughs, "It seems like you can't go to a newsstand without picking up a magazine with pictures of you two out and about together."

I shrug, playing innocent, "Sorry to disappoint, but we're co-workers, nothing more. Often times what they don't show in those pictures are other cast members with us or friends. I mean, we hang out the way work colleagues would at any other job." Lies. All lies. And if feels damn good to be lying in front of God, Christophe, and the devil. I can feel Christophe shifting uncomfortably, just out of my field of vision. If I'm making him angry- well good.

The reporter smiles, a total leech, and I can tell she isn't happy with the non-juicy information I'm supplying. "A lot of rumors have been flying about this young cast." She laughs in the way a cardboard cutout of a woman might laugh, "What do you say to the rumors that your behavior towards your fellow cast members has been rather cold and vitriolic? We hear you can be quite aggressive."

I smile a slightly condescending smile at the press, "I think people are going to say things about a cast like this, no matter what. As for myself, my process is different than a lot of these actors. This is a conservatory, but I'm not fresh from high school like a lot of the people on set here. Acting is a tough gig, and I'm just here to do my job. And in art that requires a lot of assertion. Some people aren't used to that. I just try and stay honest to McCormick and honest to myself."

The reporter nods pretending to know exactly what I'm talking about, "And your performance here has been getting a lot of attention. We hear a lot of high profile film directors are looking to cast you and try and replicate your incredible chemistry with Christophe Jean-Benoit in a more mainstream couple. Would you ever consider leaving _South Park_?"

I look down, my voice careful and truthful, "I think what Christophe and I have… what we do is very unusual in the industry, in the craft. What we're able to create together is something that may or may not ever happen again… because this kind of thing chooses you, you don't choose it. If I thought that what I could bring to _South Park_ was no longer respected in terms of art or viable in terms of chemistry, yes I would leave. But not until then."

"Well, we're big fans of your on screen relationship," the reporter gushes, "And of the unusual way _South Park_ is created. To think you have no script! I know the world is waiting to see how Kenny McCormick will react to the shocking revelation last week. We were flabbergasted to find out about this new tryst between Christophe and Ike. Do you have any ideas about how your character will take it on tonight's show?"

I smile my most charming smile, smoothly going off book, "No, and I'm not sure if it's even relevant at this point." I look over the reporter's shoulder at Garrison, pointedly, "I will not be appearing tonight. My doctor thinks it would be better if I rest for another week. I just came in to talk to you."

I can feel the silent murmurs my cast in front of me, and Garrison has stepped closer, rolling his eyes.

"Well we certainly appreciate it! We're huge fans here at _People_, Kenny!" The reporter's smile is way larger than is natural. "Would you and Christophe favor us with a sneak peak of what we can expect for the future?"

"I don't think-"

"They'd be happy to!" Garrison nearly yells, motioning for Christophe to come to the open center of the studio. "No problem at all, right Ken?"

"Fabulous!" The reporter is already on her feet, motioning for the camera crew to get in position. She knows she's hit the jackpot.

I stand up ready to yank Garrison into the next room and tell him it's a no fly. But Christophe is slinking out of the shadows, into the center of the room, silent and dark like a panther through jungle brush. His cultured delicate face has the most ungainly gleam to his eyes and I read it as a challenge. Christophe knows that beyond the fourth wall, I have no choice but to be plain with him. Beyond the forth wall he exists to confuse and torment and invade my space. Even as I rise to face him I can feel my legs grow weak and the air in my chest deflate. It's too easy to go back to a place of helplessness when I become McCormick. McCormick has nothing to hide. I have everything.

I walk into the light, Garrison's voice, not unlike the voice of some god calls, "Christophe, let's take this from Henri finding McCormick alone in the courtyard. McCormick knows about Ike. And go!"

I turn to Garrison, pointedly away from Christophe's fucking body. Jesus it emulates this weird sort of control even when he's supposedly in neutral. "I'm not doing this." I tell Garrison. Everyone else assumes I'm in the scene.

I feel strong, cold hands on my forearms, turning me towards my partner, making me face him and all of a sudden my eyes fill. Crying without shame. Plain and simple, it's a hard thing for me to do, and probably impossible for a normal person. But I know I'm different and I know Christophe is different, so I gather what's left of my courage, and raise weak eyes to meet his. I shouldn't have. I regret it every time I do, and I regret it now. Even though I expected it, have assured myself a thousand times in my head and in my dreams that it would be this way, it is strange. I'm actually relieved to see Christophe's familiar eyes looking back at me, telling me he will only take what I'm willing to give. Which is everything. All of a sudden there is no audience and no reporter and no show- there is only us.

"I can't." I tell him.

His face crushes, just a little, like one brave crease in Martha Stewart's linen tablecloth, but he is unrelenting. "But I-"

I don't want to be here, with him, saying this world, so I slip it out as silently as I can- a mere breath. Surely he can't hear me breathing. "No."

But somehow he does hear. "So is that what you're going to do, just leave me like this…"

I don't answer because I can't breathe.

He moves, it seems like the first time in years since either of us have moved. He runs his hands through his hair; it is an infinitely angry gesture. A simple act has never been more violent. Shooting me would have hurt less. It startles me so much I think the tears being to fall faster.

"God Kenny, you can't do this to me. Do you hear?" He grabs my shoulders and even though I knew it was coming, I am surprised that my body doesn't cave in and crumble like an eggshell under his touch. "I won't let you."

"You shouldn't even care." I am helpless. I am warm clay in his hands. "What about Ike?"

"What about him?" Christophe is looking at me with such intensity I expect both of us are engulfed in some kind of wildfire right now. "Why does he matter?"

"How can you say that?" Christophe's grip is getting increasingly tight around my shoulders. Part of me wonders if he's trying to hurt or deliberately give me bruises, the other part of me is wondering if I'll even live through tonight.

"You're being selfish." His voice is filled with vinegar, but in some way, it's also a plea.

"You know what? Maybe you're right. Maybe I am being selfish, maybe I…" I trail off. I notice dispassionately how my soul seems to come out though my eyes in liquid form wondering if this is how you become soulless. Speaking of soulless, I wish Garrison would just take a gun to my head and get it over with instead of putting me through this bullshit. All I think is how I'm going to die from emotional over-expenditure. I'm positive God only has a certain amount of emotions a person can use before they run out and start getting in emotional debt. I've overdrawn three lifetime's worth of emotional rollercoaster rides in the last week along and I'm waiting for some angel to come down and reclose on my relationship with Christophe. So far, no such luck.

All of a sudden the truth slips out like a bullet from a gun. "I have to be selfish. I have to. Because I love you."

In my head I see Christophe taking a two by four filled with rusty nails and smacking my upside the head with it. And all of a sudden I'm falling to the floor, Christophe's weight on my shoulders driving us both down. I'm sure it hurts, but I can't feel it. Here on the ground, a broken doll, a broken toy, and all I can think is how Christophe needs to get off of me.

"Jesus Christ monkeyballs!" Garrison's voice is on the move. "Christophe get off him!"

"Kenny!" Christophe's face is over mine, a deep crease of worry just beginning to infect his perfect face.

I smile slightly, a breath away from him. My trembling hand finds his neck and pulls him down close to my lips so that my words just caress his sensitive skin. "If you ever fucking touch me again," I breathe, "I will die."


	4. Interlude: The Burnt Letter

Dear Christophe,

Two is not a safe number.

That is something you know.

But I want you to know this,

above all else, my beauty.

If another word never falls from my mouth

to your eyes, I want you to know this.

I never wanted to leave you.

The choice was not in my name.

I did not bare it, but rather,

it was the bastard daughter

of Cowardice and Starvation

And should our antiheros never live to kiss again

know me and know

I have lived whole lives between our heartbeats.

But if in the hours you used

to walk in tandem with my mind

and inhale the breath I exhaled

you find yourself seeking me and mine

know that I find it impossible to ignore

what continues to burn

if only slowly

Love, Kenny


	5. Chapter 3: Here today Gone Tomorrow

_Lately I've been hard to reach_

_I've been too much on my own…_

_Are you calling to me?_

_Are you trying to get through?_

_Are you reaching out to me?_

_I'm reaching out to you_

"Yes, it's a new strain of Tuberculosis." Dr. Mephisto's voice is soft but matter-a-fact as he talks with Garrison over my head. "These fainting spells are not unusual in times of stress."

"How do we treat it?" Garrison asks, "And when can he get back to work?"

"I'm sorry," Mephisto intones, "There is not cure for this strain. Although quite rare, as of now it's terminal. I didn't think it was possible at first, but it explains Kenny's weight loss."

"He's been coughing up blood during rehearsals…" Garrison admitted. A pause and then, "How long?"

"Could be a year, could be ten," Dr. Mephisto sounded grave, "I've found it really has a lot to do with Kenny's will to live at this point… I've seen patients with families or lovers who need them live well against the odds."

_I'm just so fucking depressed_

_I just can't seem to get out this slump…_

_I took my bruises, took my lumps_

_Fell down and I got right back up_

"Now it's important that nobody find out." Dr. Mephisto warns, "Kenny doesn't want anybody but yourself and his family to know. It's important that he keep living normally for now."

"Of course," Garrison agrees. "If that's what Kenny wants, we'll keep if from the cast and the crew. Hopefully the goddamn media won't get wind."

"I would however caution you and Kenny both against, shall we say, stressful situations," Mephisto sighs, "Any sort of undo exertion should be avoided. Kenny is not as psychically strong as he used to be. I must advise him against pushing himself. The more rested and relaxed Kenny is the better chance he'll have to live longer."

_I don't know how or why or when_

_I ended up in this position I'm in_

_I'm starting to feel distant again_

After Dr. Mephisto leaves, I convince Garrison to let me go home. The fucker won't let me drive my own damn car and calls me a cab. I pass by the now nearly deserted green room on my way to the stage door, to hear my name. I pause in the shadows by the musty doorframe, just out of sight of the tittering occupants.

"Christ- did you see how hard Kenny hit the fucking floor?" Eric's voice is unmistakable. "I don't know what the hell that was about."

"He's such a fucking drama queen!" Wendy chortles. "I mean, did you see the way that reporter's eyes bugged out of her face? I bet he loved that."

"Gee, I don't know, fellows," Butters sounds quiet and unsure, "He looked pretty pale to me."

"Well I think it was hilarious," Ike's girlish voice sound unusually buoyant, "It made me laugh. He was obviously just trying to get Christophe's attention. And I think Christophe knew it."

"Really?" Of course Eric leaps on this idea.

"Oh yeah," Ike laughs, "Christophe seemed totally pissed when I talked to him after they took Kenny out. It's so pathetic. Kenny's like in love with him. Christophe told me he's such a fucking slut-"

Ike never gets to finish that sentence. This is primarily because I've launched myself through the doors and am beating the ever loving shit out of him. Within half a second I see Kyle bolt through the other door and Eric and he are pulling me off the kid.

_And I know some shit's so hard to swallow_

_but I just can't sit back and wallow _

_in my own sorrow _

"Kenny, this is very serious." Wendy is staring at me, but I can't concentrate on what her best impression of Ruth Bader Ginsberg is saying because I have no fucking idea why she's here.

It's three days after I broke Ike's nose in two places and I've been called into a near empty green room before rehearsal and plopped down at a conference table opposite Kyle, his father who also serves as his and Ike's agent, Wendy, and Stan. I have no idea what is going on but they seem to be staging some juvenile version of an intervention. Only Garrison's not here and they all seem a little nervous, despite the fact that the ratio is four to one. I also have no fucking clue why Wendy is here and trying to lecture me. I'm positive I've never actually spoken to her before- on or off stage.

I roll my eyes, "What are you going to give me detention after school for scraping?"

"This isn't just about Ike, Kenny!" Stan says, "You've been increasingly hostile to the cast this season. You've become impossible to work with."

I cock an eyebrow, "And when was the last time I had a scene with you, Stan?"

"That's beyond the point," Stan says, "Everybody is complaining about it."

"Interesting how this is the first I've actually heard about it…" I can't tell which of the eight pairs of eyes I'm supposed to be looking at.

"Oh really?" Wendy rolls her eyes, "You can't think of times you've taken things personally?"

_Only when little shits like Ike provoke me and make it personal_, I think silently.

"Respect the art, respect the process," I shrug. "And I really don't know what you're referring to."

"Christophe." Stan says suddenly and I can feel what's left of my heart drop below my sternum and fall into my acidic stomach. "Christophe says you're hard to be around. Hard to work with."

Christ. Why didn't he talk to me? Say something. I thought… I thought we didn't keep that kind of bullshit work stuff from each other. All of a sudden a whole new kind of betrayal washes over me.

I mask my sudden torrent of pangs with a hard look. "What happens between me and my scene partner is between him and I. I'd think Christophe would come to me if there was a problem." Each word comes out of my mouth like a block of ice.

"No," Stan said, "He can't. You can't just treat everyone like dirt, Kenny."

I stand up, "Actually, what I can't do is continue this conversation without Garrison and my agent."

"Why not?" Wendy demands.

"Well, because I need both of them to negotiate the terms of my exit from the show."

_But I know one thing_

_I'll be one tough act to follow_

_Here today, gone tomorrow _


	6. Chapter 4: Point Blank

Cigarette Burns Point Blank

Jean-Benoit doesn't watch Kenny walk into the office, but he feels him enter like a slap to the face. Although his senses have been honed since childhood, since his first inklings of danger in his mother's garden before he could run away or learn to protect himself, this has nothing to do with Kenny. You would have to be a rock to not notice Kenny enter a room. The American star had a dewy sort of muskmelon aroma that hovers over him like a fine perfume over a beautiful woman, and he takes up the kind of space you would expect a much larger, much older man to consume. Although he knows Kenny has been ill lately, knows along with the rest of the world about his public suffering, Christophe can't help but wonder at the sort of uninhibited sense of entitlement Kenny seems to exude despite his circumstances. There is no shame to Kenny's passion. He is an American prince and he does not apologize for rash decisions made in times of high tension. Instead he seems to Christophe like a wounded and tethered bird of prey, relentlessly beating his beautiful flustered wings into the ground.

This boy- this _thing_ is so foreign to Jean-Benoit. Kenny has no sense of subtly, no worldly idea of reality, and yet there is something about him that is all hunger and agony. From the beginning, Christophe scoffed at the pampered boy, thinking he had never known true pain. But somehow, now he was beginning to believe the boy was all pain. Jean-Benoit and Henri both had noticed. A kind of pain that could kill. A kind of pain Christophe thought in his darkest, most illogical and surreal private moments that Kenny did not think was escapable.

Kenny and his agent sit across the table from Christophe and Garrison. Kenny is silent, but his head is thrown back, the harsh florescent lighting of the office unable to diminish his boyish good looks. Unlike so many young male stars in America, nothing about Kenny appears girlish or tailored. If he is a piece of meat, he is one that is in control of the butcher.

When Christophe was 13 he ran away from his family's estate for the first time, trading the secreted violence of his home for the overt violence of the Paris streets. Within a week he had fallen in with a group of rent boys who worked the streets in exchange for protection from the local crime bosses. Since his first experiences with men he had bemoaned his own face. His hands had gotten dirty and his perception of the world had turned rugged and pockmarked, but his face had remained as clear and pristine as a boy angel on the ceiling of a cathedral. As he grew he had learned to take power as he needed it, learned how to make the world look where he wanted. In his experience most people wanted either his money or his mercy. But Kenny… Kenny was not afraid of him. And he had no interest in mercy.

"We understand your concerns, Mr. Garrison," Ms. Victoria, Kenny's agent was saying, "And we've taken them into consideration. Kenny has a solution which I think will solve your problems about McCormick being such an integral part of _South Park_."

Mr. Garrison looks supremely irritated, "And that is?"

"You'll have to simply replace Kenny with another actor to play McCormick upon his exit." Ms. Victoria states.

"_Quoi_!" Christophe stood up involuntarily.

Kenny looks at him but then quickly looks away.

"Exit?"

"Yes, you French dumbass," Garrison says, "That's why we're meeting. Kenny wants to leave us."

"When?" Christophe quickly sits back down and arranges himself into a calm, undeterred position, still mentally reeling.

"As soon as possible." Kenny's voice is cut and stark.

There is a tense moment as Christophe's head attempts to catch up with his beating heart.

"I will not go on with another actor." He says, or tires to say. His English becomes foggy at best when he is flustered.

"Yes, well," Ms. Victoria says, "It says right here on page 13, paragraph 4- Kenny has creative control over McCormick. Kenny has been very adamant to me that a replacement actor be hired."

"Why?" Mr. Garrison asks the question on everyone's mind.

"You think you can replace me," Kenny is looking at Garrison, but his voice is clearly pointed elsewhere. "Now you can."

Christophe subconsciously fingers the knife strapped at his side, wishing vehemently for something to unleash his sudden anger upon.

"I will not accept _this_." He states.

"Unfortunately, you don't have a choice," Ms. Victoria hands Garrison a copy of the paperwork evenly.

"You cannot even resolve the season?" Christophe asks Kenny, his voice clipped and full of acid.

Kenny neither looks up nor answers. He is suddenly still as a statue.

"You are a coward." Christophe spits and stands.

"I have no desire to waste my time." Kenny mutters.

"You have no integrity to your art!" Christophe turns, angrily, "Call in the next actor, then. What do I care?"

Twenty minutes later Garrison enters Christophe's dressing room with a hearty smile.

"Good work," He claps the Frenchman on the back. "Kenny has agreed to resolve the season before he leaves."


End file.
